


Flashback

by Todesengel



Category: Voltron: Lion Voltron
Genre: Drug Abuse, Gen, Past Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-04-03
Updated: 2004-04-03
Packaged: 2017-10-23 03:42:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/245933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Todesengel/pseuds/Todesengel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His first lesson was flight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flashback

The first lesson was flight.

Keith had learned this the hard way, too many years too late for it to be of much use. But he had learned it nonetheless and taken the lesson to heart the way he did so many other, useless lessons.

The second lesson was to hide, and Keith excelled at this. In truth, he had always known this lesson—he had just never been able to put it into practice for what good was hiding when he couldn't get away in the first place? He knew how to make his body as small as possible, how to disappear into another place, to hide his soul when he couldn't hide his flesh. He could have taught a senior seminar on hiding by now.

And that was what he was doing right now. Why let a good lesson go to waste, after all?

True, sneaking out onto the roof of Watson hall was not exactly the best place to flee and hide too, but hell, it was the best he could do for now. Besides, if he moved around to the back of the dinning hall, and stared into the setting sun, he was practically invisible. Not many students at the Academy bothered to look up at the sky, which was a pity in Keith's opinion. From where he sat, back against the slope of the roof, butt firmly planted on the wide, flat expanse of roof that covered the old veranda, he had a perfect view of the slowly deepening blue sky.

Still, smoking out here on the roof would give him a bit of a delay. Hide in plain sight and all that. He would be completely visible if anybody bothered to stick their head out the window, of course, but he'd barricaded the door, and his keepers thought he was napping or doing homework or some such shit. Not like he needed a particularly long time, anyway. If he timed it right, he would be finished and ready to turn himself in right when they were ready to look for him.

The opium pipe felt comfortable in his hands, an old friend. It felt even better between his lips, and he sucked in the opium smoke with abandon. He knew that this was nothing more than a delaying tactic, that the opium would only render him senseless for a short period of time, that it would open the doors and allow the pain of memory to creep in and rip his heart to shreds.

That was why he had brought along the bottle of moonshine that he'd made in Organic Chem. Lab earlier that week; hopefully it would be enough to numb his soul and let him enjoy the setting sun in peace.

Another long drag on the pipe, and then the ball of opium was nothing more than ashes in the bowl.

Keith closed his eyes, enjoyed the warmth of the sun upon his face, one hand groping for the bottle of rotgut. He took a quick pull, and then another, gulping down the spirits quickly so that he wouldn't have to taste them. They left a trail of fire down his throat, set a flame in his belly.

The pain was good.

Keith emptied the bottle, and let himself collapse against the warm tiles that burned his hands. He listened to the distant, garbled noises of life that rang out behind him. He thought of nothing, felt only heat and pain and the present, and began to hope that maybe, maybe, he could just get high and enjoy himself for once.

Then a cloud passed over the sun, and the light behind Keith's eyes changed from a silver-grey to a darker, more sinister shade. It was the light of the confessional booth, the light of Father Cahn's room, the light of the candle that was held above his soft young flesh and dripped burning wax that scarred his soul. Keith shivered, drew his knees up and tucked his chin into the little space between his thin legs and his thin chest, and fought a losing battle against himself.

It always started like this. Something, some little, insignificant thing, would trigger the memories he tried to keep buried, and the years would roll back until he tasted once again the bitter tang of fear.

He could feel Father Cahn's hands against his body. Feel their unwanted touch as they caressed him, held him, hurt him. He could hear the man's wet voice in his ear, whispering prayers and mouthing platitudes to God even as he forced himself upon Keith's prepubescent body.

And how fitting it was that the man of god sent to save his father's black soul should be such a monster. That he should be nothing more than a lecherous molester who, in the dark of the sanctified chapel, did what he pleased with his patron's son. Still, what more could be expected of a priest that said benediction over a heartless murderer and absolved away the thousands of sins that stained that dark man's soul?

The tumbled words of half remembered prayers spilled from Keith's mouth as he begged the god he abhorred to save him.

The sky was darkening rapidly now, the sky becoming a navy blue so dark that it bordered on black. It reminded Keith of the midnight vigils where Father Cahn would crawl in bed with him, and fuck him, and his mother would sleep her drunken sleep only a thin wall away, while his father slept a thousand miles away in some other woman's bed. But wasn't that just his parents' way? His father preferring his bastards, his mother too far gone in booze and drugs and, later, young men who found her wealthy enough, and powerful enough to overcome their revulsion for her aging flesh.

Keith began to rock back and forth, trying to purge his mind of these dark memories. It was getting late, and his keepers would come to get him soon. His keepers. Hah. His father's bastards, most likely, sent to make sure their crazy half-brother didn't finally manage to kill himself.

Someday, someday he would succeed. Some day, he would smoke enough opium or drink enough that he would be able to leap off of the roof his father's skyscraper.

Then he would really fly.


End file.
